Zhai'helleva, Ashke
by Adara-chan67
Summary: Sam's often been heard to say that things would have turned out differently if he'd just told Jessica the truth. But really, how much would have changed? Would things be better...or worse? Multichapter, rating may be subject to change.
1. Prologue

_DISCLAIMER: I don't own De Boyz (oh, that I could stop writing that…) or any of the songs you may find in future chapters of this story. It sucks, but I'll live, I guess._

_Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester, guest starring Jessica Moore_

_Setting: Pre-Pilot to end of Pilot_

_Warnings: AU, character death_

* * *

Prologue

They were born several hundred miles apart—she in San Francisco, California and he in Lawrence, Kansas.

Neither was aware of the other's existence. They had different families, different thoughts, different plans. They lived entirely separate lives for a long time and for many years they moved in completely different directions.

But within twenty years, they were to meet, and that meeting was to be a meeting of two worlds as well as two people. Though neither of them would ever see it, their meeting was to send two words clashing together, when they were meant to be kept apart.

Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore. Two people. Two lives. One love.

This is their story.

* * *

_Author's Note: Huh. Had a kinda '80s romance movie sort of vibe at the end there, didn't it?_

_Yeah, I know. Short. Unoriginal. Melodramatic. And it's hard to see the point, even though I promise there is one. I was in a weird mood when I wrote it, what can I say? The rest of the story will be fairly normal, I promise._


	2. Down Will Come Baby

Chapter 1

**Sharing with us what he knows,**

**Shining eyes are big and blue,**

**And all around him, water flows.**

**This world to him is new.**

**This world to him is new.**

Sammy always had the biggest eyes, and from the time of his birth he could do this _thing_ with them—this thing where he seemed to look right through you and see your every thought But then he would make them all wide and innocent and he'd smile his little-baby smile and you would just forget how much they creeped you out.

Sammy was also abnormally curious. If his tiny little body hadn't demanded it, he probably would have foregone sleep entirely in favor of staring around at the whole world for days on end.

Mary Winchester was incredibly proud of these traits, and older brother Dean was fond of telling anyone who would listen that "Daddy says Sammy's gonna be the smartest kid in the class when he goes to school!"

He wasn't wrong.

What he was wrong about was the reaction to it.

**To touch a face,**

**To kiss a smile,**

**New eyes see no race.**

**The essence of a child,**

**The essence.**

Sammy's curiosity persisted even in the wake of the horror of Mary's death, because of course he had no idea what had happened to change his young life forever. By the age of two he was toddling all over the place, picking up everything he could get his hands on. More often than not the inclination got him into trouble, but stayed with him anyways.

As he underwent the transformation from Sammy to Sam, though, the curiosity became more restrained, mixed up with rebellion and just general teen angst. Ironically, it also became yet another excuse for the growing-more-frequent fights between him and John, because it got Sam into the habit of asking questions—an undesirable quirk that Dean had somehow managed to shake somewhere around the age of twelve.

Sam's teenage years were a thousand little skirmishes all strung together in one big battle as he fought his way toward adulthood with wild abandon. He fought his war against the whole world, but the general of that enormous army—well, that unlucky title fell to John Winchester.

For years, Dean was careful to stay neutral, to not take sides. He was, perhaps, not so good at it as those infamous Swiss, and sometimes he slipped up, but this was a rare enough occurrence that he was usually able to keep both parties friendly with him at the end of the day.

But there comes a time in every war when things must begin coming to a head, and for the Winchesters it all started when Sam was fifteen.

**He's born to shimmer, he's born to shine.**

**He's born to radiate.**

**He's born to live.**

**He's born to love.**

**But we will teach him not to hate.**

All Sam's life, he hated killing.

He did it because he weighed human life against demon life, and found the former more important.

He did it, but he didn't like it.

On the night that his perception shifted, Sam was hunting with John and Dean. He wouldn't ever be able to remember _what_ they were hunting—it didn't matter. That wasn't the point.

The point was that the big thing had a couple of little baby things with it, and Sam couldn't shoot any of them.

**True love, it is a rock,**

**Smoothed over by a stream.**

**No ticking of a clock**

**Truly measures what that means,**

**Truly measures what that means.**

The fight that came after was the worst any of them could remember, and they all came out of it distinctly ruffled. There were accusations flung from all sides, and, as always, John and Sam were completely content to blame each other and leave Dean out of it—which, actually, made him feel worse than if they'd declared the whole thing his fault.

It was impossible to say who "won", because of course neither father nor son would concede defeat. However, both sides escaped without casualties, so Dean figured it was all gonna be okay.

He changed his mind before long.

**And this thing they call our time,**

**Heard a brilliant woman say.**

**She said, "You know, it's crazy**

**How I want to capture mine."**

**I think I love this woman's way.**

**I think I love this woman's…**

Sam's junior year happened to fall into one of those rare, golden times when the Winchesters actually stayed in one place for more than a couple of weeks. John even found a fairly nice apartment to rent, with two bedrooms so that they weren't all stuffed into one place, and Sam even backed off the rebellious act when John consented to enroll him in the local high school.

Sam very rarely was able to go to one school for long. He was an incredibly smart person, so he'd never actually had to be held back, but hardly ever was he able to stay in one place long enough to make friends.

This time was different, though, because this school turned out to be where Sam would meet his downfall.

**Way she shimmers, the way she shines,**

**The way she radiates,**

**The way she lives,**

**The way she loves,**

**The way she never hates.**

Sam had never gotten a chance to fall in love before, but now that he had, he went head-over-heels, tumbling-to-the-bottom-of-the-mountain _down_. Having never been subject to the passions of his age, he proved more susceptible than most, and was soon swearing up and down that she was absolutely the most wonderful person ever to walk the earth.

There was a difference between Sam and most of his kind, though—his affection was actually returned, and it wasn't long before Sam had his first girlfriend.

Dean and John never actually met her, and in fact Sam never told anyone about her. But as these things often go, everyone from Dean to John to the students to Sam's trig teacher knew he was dating, and Sam knew they knew, but no one ever said a word about it. Instead, Dean went around with a smirk on his face, covertly mocking whenever he got the chance, and John remained impassive so that neither of his sons ever knew what he thought of it.

During his time with her, Sam became so easygoing and amiable that it was as if he'd went and gotten a whole new personality. He didn't argue with Dean, and he didn't fight with John.

Only thing was, he didn't want to fight much else, either.

**Sometimes I think of all this that can surround me.**

**I know it all as being mine.**

**But she kisses me and wraps herself around me.  
She gives me love, she gives me time,**

**And I feel fine.  
I feel fine.**

When Sam slipped up on a hunt for the third time, very nearly getting himself killed, John decided enough was enough.

And the next thing Sam knew, his bags were packed and the truck was loaded and he was folded into the passenger seat of Dean's Impala because he wouldn't have been able to handle any sort of proximity to John, and they were moving on.

It was the night before junior prom.

They already had their tickets.

And Sam never said goodbye.

**But time, I cannot change.  
So here's to looking back.**

**You know, I drink a whole bottle of my pride,**

**And I toast to change**

**To keep these demons off my back.**

**Just get these demons off my back.**

It was a John Winchester Natural Reaction—watch son get gradually more distracted, see son nearly die, remove son from distracting situation—and not an entirely evil decision as such, but it still caused the entire world to shift on its axis.

The fight didn't come until they hit the next motel, but it didn't become lesser from being pent up—in fact, it seemed to cause the very walls to shake. Dean actually hid until it was over—first time ever. For what seemed like hours the place echoed with accusations and boiled with anger, and for a while it looked like it wouldn't end at all.

But then suddenly it did, and the motel room was absolutely silent, and Dean wished the shouting would start again, because to him where _was_ a sound, and he could even put a name to it. Several, in fact.

Giving up.

Fragile things breaking.

The last thread snapping.

'**Cause I want to shimmer, I want to shine.**

**I want to radiate.**

**I want to live.**

**I want to love.**

**I want to try to learn not to hate,**

**Try not to hate.**

Mrs. Bedsworth of Francis Howell North High School was not having a good morning, and it wasn't looking up by one in the afternoon when someone knocked softly on her door.

She said to sit, and she'd help in a minute, facedown in a packed drawer of files. She heard a careful, measured tread on the carpet, and then the sound of someone dropping into a chair, but whoever it was didn't say a word, waiting patiently, and for that she was grateful.

After a minute, she pulled out the folder she'd been searching for, looked up—and smiled for the first time all day.

She looked at the young man sitting across from her and waited for him to come out with it, already knowing it had to be important. Sam Winchester had only been at North for a couple of weeks, but already he had a reputation as the handsome, quiet observer who didn't like to bother people.

Sam looked at her, and he seemed even more serious than usual—maybe that was how he showed nerves?

"I need you to help me get a full ride to Stanford University."

**We're born to shimmer, we're born to shine.**

**We're born to radiate.**

**We're born to live.**

**We're born to love.**

**We're born to never hate.  
**

* * *

_Author's Note: It was relevant, I swear. Helps figure Sammy out a little, at least._

_Sorry this took so long to come out—I get _so little_ writing done nowadays, not because I don't want to, but because I don't have the _time._ You all probably understand, right? And are willing to be patient? Please?_


	3. The Kids Are All Right

Chapter 2

**She rolls the window down**

**And she**

**Talks over the sound**

**Of the cars that pass us by,**

**And I don't know why,**

**But she's changed my mind.**

Stanford was smaller than Sam thought it would be. Not that it was _small_, by any means. In fact, it was probably bigger than one or two of the Connecticut towns he'd lived in.

But somehow, ever since he'd gotten that fateful letter—ever since he'd slit the envelope open with shaking fingers and unfolded the paper inside to read the first line and broken into giddy laughter at the words it contained—well, he'd sort of expected it to be larger than life, a little. Expected it to be as big and bright and all-encompassing as the future it held for him.

But when he found out that Stanford was really nothing more than a cluster of buildings and lawns and courtyards—when he realized that his dream was, in fact, much smaller than he'd imagined—he felt oddly glad. It made Stanford, and the future, and his _life_, into something he could rise above, something he could _conquer._

And that, more than anything—more than being accepted to college, more even than escaping the hunt—that gave him hope.

**Would you look at her?**

**She looks at me.**

**She's got me thinking about her constantly,**

**But she don't know how I feel,**

**And as she carries on without a doubt,**

**I wonder if she's figured out**

**I'm crazy for this girl.**

As he unpacked, Sam wondered about her.

It happened a lot—had been ever since the day he'd left town with his family. He wondered what she was doing at given moments, whether she had a new guy in her life, how disgusted she was with him on a scale of one to a billion.

She would be starting college this year, too—maybe her first semester had already begun. She could be anywhere in the world right now, and he supposed any hope he'd had of finding her again—whatever small ray of hope there'd been—was gone now.

Sam knew he had no right to be feeling sorry for himself like this. He'd only been at Stanford less than a day and already life was looking better than it ever had. He was getting an education, could get a real, live day job, could be a _person_ now, and he was grateful for the chance, he really was.

But it didn't stop him from thinking about the girl.

**She was the one to hold me**

**The night**

**The sky fell down.**

**And what was I thinking when**

**The world didn't end?**

**Why didn't I know what I know now?**

Sam realized only now that he'd been in love with her the whole time. Oh, he'd always _liked_ her, of course—she'd been the best friend he'd ever had, quite apart from anything else. He'd regarded any moment spent without her as a moment wasted, and he'd felt…normal…in her company. She'd been the one to listen to him when he felt the need to talk about…well, what little he _could_ talk about, anyway…and she'd never pushed when he couldn't tell her everything.

So yes, she'd always meant the world to him.

But only now, after they'd already been separated, when it was far too late—only now did he see the truth, understand the depth of his own feelings.

And he was completely, utterly, heartily _sick_ of irony.

**Would you look at her?**

**She looks at me.**

**She's got me thinking about her constantly,**

**But she don't know how I feel.**

**And as she carries on without a doubt,**

**I wonder if she's figured out**

**I'm crazy for this girl.**

In all the time he'd been thinking of her, it had never occurred to Sam, not for a single second, that he would see her again.

It just wasn't the way things worked in his world. When Sam Winchester left people behind, it was for good and always, and there was no doubt about his leaving the girl behind. He'd done it, he wasn't going to see her again, and no more said.

And maybe it was even better that way. Being close to Sam Winchester was never the safest thing, and he'd learned a long time ago to cut himself off as much as possible. So maybe it was better that they'd been separated. It was almost certainly safer for her.

Only now, the usual rationalizations—the platitudes he'd always used to comfort himself whenever he found himself alone again—they didn't work. Not this time. Not with this person. He couldn't use empty words on himself this time—she was too important.

But he would just have to deal. He wasn't ever going to see her again. The world didn't work that way, and life wasn't a fairy tale. She was _gone_.

Sam honestly believed it.

Until he walked into his Art History class and saw her sitting in the front row.

**Right now,**

**Face to face,**

**All my fears**

**Pushed aside,**

**And right now**

**I'm ready to spend the rest of my life**

**With you.**

Naturally all the seats were filled and the professor was starting the class by the time Sam got his mind wrapped around this inconceivable sight, and so he was forced to go to the back row and spend the next hour completely ignoring his first-ever college lecture in favor of straining to catch a glimpse of what had to be either a mistake or an apparition.

He followed her when the class let out, his brain clamoring so loudly as to reduce the loud voices of his classmates to nothing more than low hums.

She couldn't be here. It simply wasn't possible. _The real world didn't work like that, _damn it! It couldn't happen, it _shouldn't_ happen, it would change _everything_, would twist everything, and though he wanted it to be true _so badly_ it just wouldn't _fit_.

It was impossible, improbable, unthinkable.

And yet…

Here he was, forced to think it.

He still hadn't gotten a leash on himself by the time he caught up to her, and his hand shook violently when he reached out to catch her shoulder.

She turned, smiling politely, to face hi. Abruptly, her smile began to fade into a look of confusion, and her whole body gave an odd little jerk, like she was trying to shake something off.

Sam whispered his disbelief, his voice heavy with it.

"Jessica."

**Would you look at her?  
She looks at me.**

**She's got me thinking about her constantly,  
But she don't know how I feel.**

**And as she carries on without a doubt,**

**I wonder if she's figured out**

**I'm crazy for this girl.**

**I'm crazy for this girl.**

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, so these first few were always destined to be short, rather boring set-up chapters, while Sam was being emo and all. But things should liven up now. I hope._

_Oh, and also—for all you Dean lovers who have been bummed about his lack of appearance in this story…don't worry, it's not forever! I _promise


	4. Crashing Down to Earth

Chapter 3

**You sit there in my shadow,**

**And you call if your relief.**

**Don't be the one with bad eyes for**

**The things that I could see.**

**Don't give me that.**

"So…you left your family? Just like that?"

Sam answered cautiously—she didn't _seem_ homicidal, but it was possible that an explosion was imminent.

"Well…yeah. I guess."

Jessica nodded slowly, picking up her cup of coffee and gulping it down, and Sam _still _couldn't figure out what she was thinking. She _was_ drinking scalding black coffee with inhuman speed, but then she'd always had unbelievable caffeine tolerance, so that wasn't necessarily indicative of anything.

Sam sat back in his chair, his hands resting on the table, his eyes hidden behind his hair—a pose that he'd always found particularly effective. He felt a little guilty using such an underhanded trick on Jess, but he figured that after he'd spilled such a story to her—well, he'd told _part_ of the truth—what he could, anyway—he could use all the help he could get.

Jess was quiet for a long time, and every glance Sam chanced showed her staring down into her cup, her finger circling the rim. He judged silence to be the best course, and waited.

"I didn't go to the dance."

Sam looked up quickly, and caught her in a smile.

**The darkness has no armor.**

**Need protection from the air.**

**High hopes through time passing,**

**When I see I want you there.**

What happened immediately after involved a lot of talking, a lot of remembering, and a lot of groveling on Sam's part. Now, maybe that groveling wasn't strictly needed, since Sam had already decided that she was the most forgiving soul in the entire universe, but it made him feel better.

They took it slowly at first, because what else could they do? Still, it wasn't long before Sam's roommate Derek—Sam's only friend so far—and Jess's small group took to reacting with varying degrees of shock when one showed up without the other. They hadn't even so much as gone on a real date yet, but apparently that didn't matter, because soon it became absolute fact, common knowledge, that both Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore were "taken."

If they hadn't been so wrapped up in each other, the clear disappointment on several faces would have been amusing. As it was, though, neither of them noticed that they were breaking hearts campus-wide—which, oddly, only caused an upswing in affection for both of them.

It didn't take long for the thing that everyone predicted did indeed come to pass, and before too much time had passed a new rumor was circulating the campus, telling all and sundry that Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore were "back together."

**I can't believe**

**You're the one for me.**

**If it was this easy to find you,**

**I should be ready for a fall.**

**I should be ready for a fall.**

Sam soon had friends coming out of his ears—so many friends that he had trouble coordinating his schedule around all of them. He had friends to study with, people who came to him for every kind of help from tutoring to technological issues (though he left the relationship advice up to his more competent girlfriend), and people who came around just to hang out with him.

This last was the thing that shocked Sam to the core. He was used to people needing his help, used to people asking favors of him, but the idea of whole groups of people who simply liked having him around—and who weren't Dean—was absolutely mind-boggling.

So, Sam had friends, and classes, and a future, and someone to share that future _with_, and it was all incredibly, wonderfully overwhelming.

He allowed himself to enjoy it all, but cautiously, certain that _something_ would come along to take it all away.

**Now my wonders rally**

**Around the person I once was,**

**Like a bird that I've been helping.**

**Hope you're healed and strong.**

**You never know when you might have to fly.**

One thing had marred the otherwise perfect bubble that was Sam's new life: his family's continued absence from it.

He'd had virtually no contact with either of them. They would be working the hunt still, naturally, and though Sam knew _someone _would inform him if anything were ever wrong, it didn't keep him from worrying.

His friends, of course, had no idea of his past. They knew he had a father and a brother somewhere out there, and that they were estranged, but that was _all_ they knew. Sam was content to leave it at that unless someone actually ventured to try placing blame for the family breakup—which his friends did have a tendency to do. These attempts were crushed each and every time by Sam, and soon his very puzzled friends learned not to say anything against the people they thought had left their son and brother behind.

So, Sam hadn't spoken to Dean or John since The Night, and Sam didn't talk to anyone about them, and it basically sucked and all, but that was the way things stood.

Then, around the beginning of Sam's sophomore year, the most momentous occasion in Sam's entire college career came around, and it all started with a simple visit to the bar.

Sam didn't often drink. He had friends who would have been more than glad to buy him a pitcher, but he only took advantage of it on certain occasions. (Although he rather managed to impress his friends when he _did._ Despite Dean's ruthless mocking, you don't grow up around Bobby Singer without learning to drink at least a little, and that's just facts. He'd never come near Dean's level—didn't _want_ to—but he could hold his own, at least.)

Still, even though this wasn't one of those occasions when Sam was willing to down any alcohol, he still had fun every time he and Jess went out with Derek and their friends, and he had no reason to believe that tonight would be any different—a delusion that wasn't to last very long.

**Where will you go after me?  
Where will you go after I set you free**

**And I don't know you from a page in my book,**

**Though I should?**

**Though I should?**

He was standing up to go get a refill for his soda when he saw his brother.

Dean was on the other side of the bar, and he looked much the same as ever. He was playing darts—not hustling, though, because he was playing too well—and he seemed tense, as if he were aware that _something_ was different. Well, that would make sense, since for the first time in a year the Winchesters were in the same room together, and it seemed that nothing at all had changed in that year.

Only…only something _was_ off, because as Dean lifted another dart and lined up his shot, he only seemed to have one arm. The other was strapped across his chest in a sling, and Sam saw red.

In the next five seconds he'd made an excuse to tonight's surprisingly small group and was slipping through the crowd to join the people watching Dean play.

For a moment, he simply watched and felt proud that this smooth, calm, cool guy was _his_ brother. He'd been feeling that pride for so long now that he doubted it would ever go away, no matter how old or mature he got.

But then Dean finished up his game and turned around, and their eyes met, and reality came crashing back.

It was rather gratifying when Dean actually showed a reaction. His eyes widened slightly, and he seemed to be fighting to keep his mouth closed. _Something_ flickered across his face before his expression closed down altogether.

Sam's heart sank until Dean's head made a jerking motion toward the door. He puzzled it out for a moment, then nodded to show he understood and began winding his way back to his friends.

"Hey, guys, I've gotta go," he said abruptly upon reaching the table.

"It's barely eight, man!" Derek said. "You're not scheduled to do the recluse thing for another couple of hours, at least."

Sam grinned, acknowledging the hit. "Yeah, I know, but I promised this guy in my government class I'd help him out," he lied smoothly. "He's meeting me at the library."

"Dude," Jess's friend Andres said. "How many people're you _tutoring?"_

Sam shrugged.

"I'll go with you," Jess said, and with one look Sam knew she wasn't buying. She's seen Dean.

Damn.

Sam shoved the smile back on his face and shook his head. "Nah, that's okay. _Someone_ has to be around to drive these guys home when they can't stand up anymore." When she merely frowned, he leaned over and kissed her, using the move to whisper, "Come to my dorm later. I'll explain it, I swear."

He didn't wait to see if she'd respond before he left.

Dean was waiting outside, and the first words out of Sam's mouth were, "Dean, what the hell happened to you?"

Dean looked puzzled for a second, then looked down and said, "Oh. It's nothin', Sammy. Poltergeist in New Jersey a couple weeks ago."

Sam glared at him. "Idiot. Where's Dad?"

"Uh…Montana. I think."

"He's not with you?"

"Nah, we're supposed to meet in Sharpsburg next week. I'm supposed to be recouping before I go."

"So you drove yourself here—with a _broken arm_—and Dad has no idea."

"What're you gonna do, tell on me?" Dean asked flatly, still studying him shrewdly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever. Kill yourself. I don't care. What're you doing here?"

Dean didn't even bother answering that one. He just _looked_, until finally it all clicked into place.

Sam groaned and buried his face in his hands. "No. _Not here._"

"'Fraid so, Sammy."

"What is it?" Sam asked through his fingers.

"Werewolf, I think. I'm pretty sure this general area is its hunting grounds."

Sam looked up at that. "wait. So you were going to hunt a _werewolf_ with _one arm_?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, why not?"

"Why _not_? Are you serious? You could've been killed!"

"And suddenly you care."

Sam's head snapped up at that, and suddenly all the calm that Dean had been exhibiting at this for-lack-of-a-better-word-reunion was gone. He looked angry, and worried, and sad, all at the same time.

Well, Sam could play that game, too.

"Something you wanna say to me?"

Dean smirked, only there wasn't any of the usual humor around it. "Nah."

"No, I think there is. Why don't you go ahead and—"

"Shut up, Sammy."

Sam went silent, knowing instantly that Dean really did mean "Shut up" rather than "Fine, let's fight."

As soon as he had, he realized what Dean had heard.

Scratching, padding steps, growling.

Wolfie was paying a call.

**I can't believe**

**You're the one for me.**

**If it was this easy to find you,**

**I should be ready for a fall.**

**I should be ready for a fall.**

**I should be ready for a fall.**

For the first time in a year, Sam found himself fighting at his brother's side, and he was interested to find that their rhythm wasn't off at all. He could still run as fast as ever, and he put the fact to immediate use by outstripping Dean, finding the Impala, and tearing the trunk open to get a gun into his hands, all within about fifteen or thirty seconds.

Still, by the time he'd returned to his brother, Dean was down.

He didn't seem bitten or scratched—there was no blood, and he was moving, struggling to throw the thing from him, howling in pain and anger as the weight fell on his broken arm time and again—and so Sam was able to move past his panic enough to take in the situation. He couldn't shoot, because he had too much of a chance of hitting Dean; he had no way of knowing what kind of bullets were in the gun anyway; and _Dean's_ gun was lying on the ground next to him, just out of reach.

So he did the only thing a guy in his situation _could_ do.

He threw his own gun at the thing and shouted as loud as he could.

Now, not much can actually _hurt_ a gull-grown werewolf, but bashing it in the head with a rifle will still get its attention—quite successfully, actually.

Sam realized that he may not have entirely thought this one through when the thing came barreling at him—with inhuman speed, of course, since it _wasn't_ human. He hadn't actually decided what he would do when he'd diverted the thing, so he followed his instincts: he dodged.

Unfortunately, dodging a werewolf is about as useful as poking it in the eye.

It took Sam several interminable moments to roll his way out from under the wolf, but as soon as he did he dove for Dean's gun, scrabbling for it, not finding it, getting more desperate and angry because where could the thing have gone and _God_, why couldn't things ever be _simple?!_

"Sam, drop!"

Sam did, instantly, and there was a shot and a _thump_ and a whimper, and then silence except for Dean's heavy breathing, and his own.

And…a girl's voice?

Saying his name?

And sounding…terrified?

Horrified, Sam rolled over and leapt to his feet, his eyes sweeping Dean for injury before jumping to the doorway of the bar.

Jess was standing there, her eyes wide as saucers, her mouth open, looking uncomprehendingly at him, as if she couldn't understand what she was seeing.

Sam reached for her, unsure of what he was going to do, but desperate to do _something_ all the same.

Jess jerked away, still staring, and took a step back.

Then she ran.

**Where will you go after me?**

**Where will you go after I set you free**

**And I don't know you from a page in my book**

**Though I should?**

* * *

_Author's Note: See? It was longer AND more involved! And Dean was there! I delivered! _**claps hands** _So. Reviews are life. Help me live! Please?_


	5. Broken Threads

Chapter 4

**Find me here.**

**Speak to me.**

**I want to feel you.**

**I need to hear you.**

**You are the light**

**That's leading me**

**To the place where I find peace again.**

Dean wouldn't leave, of course. He was clearly keen on finding out what was going on. But he didn't try to follow when Sam went rocketing out of the alley, and for now that would have to be enough.

Sam went to every one of his and Jess's haunts. Jess wasn't back in the bar. She wasn't at her dorm. She wasn't at the library, or their coffee house, or with any of her friends. She was just…gone.

Sam finally conceded defeat and trudged back to the bar two miles away, his head low the entire time, every inch of his posture screaming of his worry. Where could she be? What if she was hurt, or scared? She didn't have a car—how would she get home? What must she be _thinking_? Would she be trying to rationalize—telling herself that she'd been seeing things, that it was impossible?

Was she thinking of dumping him? Of leaving?

_That_ thought made him cold all over, and it was almost with relief that he heard Dean's voice, almost with comfort that he welcomed the sudden surge of anger.

"Dude. You got some 'splaining to do."

**You are the strength that keeps me walking.**

**You are the hope that keeps me trusting.**

**You are the light to my soul.**

**You are my purpose.**

**You're everything.**

The words weren't spiteful or offensive in the least, but they nevertheless sapped whatever had remained of Sam's patience, and Dean had barely gotten them out before he was pinned against the wall, Sam's hands fisted in his jacket.

"Now would be a _really_ good time for you to shut up, Dean."

Dean couldn't entirely hide his grimace of pain, nor his surprise. "Wow, Sammy picked up some anger management issues."

Sam hissed inarticulately, pulling Dean forward a bit just so he could shove him to the wall again. "Do you have _any_ idea what just happened?" he asked, his voice controlled but just a notch louder than usual.

"Uh…" Dean replied intelligently, looking completely nonplussed. "No…but if you let go of me we can get a drink, and then you could do something _really_ out of character and actually…oh, I dunno…_tell _me."

Sam glared for a long moment, then slowly unclenched his fingers from the leather folds of Dean's jacket and dropped his hands. "Fine. Come on."

"Oh, you're just gonna sweep me off my feet with _that_ attitude," Dean said wryly.

And just like that, for the first time in twelve months, the Winchester brothers had a conversation.

**How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?**

**Would you tell me, how could it be any better than this?**

"I can't believe you went and got yourself a girl," Dean said numbly, swallowing what remained of his bottle of beer. "And you've been with her for a _year_?"

"Longer than that," Sam said wearily. "Back in junior year, too."

Dean stared at him before reaching over, picking up his half-full bottle, and took a drink. Sam didn't protest and waved a hand dismissively when Dean went to give it back, and for a while neither said anything.

"What are you gonna tell her?"

Sam looked up quickly, but Dean's face was impassive, his tone all business. Like all he cared about was keeping a lid on a potentially explosive situation.

It was a complete façade, and they both knew it.

"I haven't decided yet."

Dean nodded slowly, taking another drink.

"The truth, maybe."

Dean looked up and he went on quickly.

"I don't know if I _will_, but I might."

_I might._

The words hung in the air between them, promising any of a hundred possible outcomes.

"But…if I do decide to do it…it's _my_ decision, Dean," Sam continued earnestly, truthfully. "I might be wrong to do it, I might cause nothing but trouble with it, but it's still _my_ decision."

Dean, staring down into his—Sam's—bottle, gave no indication that he'd even heard, and Sam desisted. The silence spiraled, and Sam was on the verge of just leaving when Dean spoke, quietly.

"Are you happy?"

Sam didn't hesitate, didn't think about it.

"Yeah." He smiled a little, distantly, not looking at his brother, or the bar, or anything at all—seeing instead a pale, smiling face framed by blond hair. A plain image of a plain girl, but images can be more deceiving than we ever realize. "Yeah. I think so."

Dean nodded, slowly, but kept his eyes averted. A second later, he finished off his beer and stood up. For a moment, Sam thought he was going to walk out of his life again without so much as a goodbye, but then Dean stopped and threw a wonderful, beautiful bone.

"You should tell her. Everything."

_Everything._ There were so many implications in that one word, and suddenly Sam saw clearly how strained and broken the thread between himself and his family had become.

Dean was walking away again now, but he stopped when Sam said his name.

"Dean."

He didn't turn around, but he was listening.

"Don't come back here anymore."

Dean's entire frame froze around the edges, and he was utterly still. Then, abruptly, he nodded, a peculiar jerking motion, and he left.

It was only as the door was closing behind him that Sam realized:

Dean had never once looked him directly in the eye.

**You calm the storms, and you give me rest.**

**You hold me in your hands, you won't let me fall.**

**You steal my heart, and you take my breath away.**

**Would you take me in? Take me deeper now?**

BY the time Sam made it across the Stanford campus and up to his floor in the dorm building, he hadn't decided on a course of action. Coming up with one just…frightened him, and there was no getting around that.

Sam stopped at his and Derek's room, pushed open the door, and found his girlfriend sitting on his bed.

"So did Derek leave after you, then?" Jess asked. "'Cause you know he never locks up."

She didn't look scared or panicked, but there _was_ an admittedly adorable squeak in her voice that meant she was still shaken.

"Jess…"

"Where's that guy?" Jess went on, seemingly oblivious to his quiet voicing of her name. "You did know him, didn't you? I mean, you're not in the habit of slaughtering big gray misshapen things with people you've never met, right?"

"I knew him," Sam confirmed. "He's my brother." Moving carefully, like he was around a scared rabbit or deer, he crossed that room and sat down next to her. She shifted, and for a sickening moment he thought she was trying to get away from him, but she only turned to face him, her head tilted adorably, studying.

"You've been hiding things from us."

Her words held no judgment, but Sam had never felt worse in his life.

"Yeah."

"You've been hiding things from _me_."

Nope. Here was another, lower level.

"…Yeah."

He'd been focusing on his hands, letting his hair hide his face, but now Jess let out a very soft chuckle, hardly more than an exhale, and put a finger under his chin, lifting his head.

"No fair, Sam. You know that pose is a completely low blow."

Sam muttered a smile for her. "Yeah. I know. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

He looked at her, and repeated it with more force.

"I'm sorry."

She gave him a long look, then said, "But why? Why was it a secret? What could be so bad that you had to hide it from me? We promised, Sam. No secrets."

They had—not long after they'd gotten back together—and Sam had been faithful to that promise.

Mostly.

Sam sighed heavily. "Look. I can't explain why I didn't tell you, except that I really did think it was for the best. You'll hate hearing this, but…I was trying to protect you."

"I know," Jess replied calmly. "I figured that out on my own. But I'd rather you didn't."

Sam stared hard into her eyes, sagging inwardly at what he found there: kindness, understanding, and steel determination.

He sighed, and in that one moment he decided.

**How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?**

**Would you tell me, how could it be any better than this?**

**And how can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?**

**Would you tell me, how could it be any better than this?**

"What you saw my brother shoot was a werewolf."

It was sharp, blunt, maybe even a little cruel, that little one-sentence explanation. But Jess said she didn't want any secrets, and he wasn't going to give her any. He gave her the bare fact, and then the whole thing began to spill out.

He talked Jess through his mom's death, his dad's depression after, being raised mostly by Dean, learning to hunt and maim and kill, and the whole time he dug up these painful memories was when had his life story gotten so _long_?

But Jess didn't interrupt, or shift, or give any indication of boredom at all, so maybe it didn't seem quite so long to her. Then again, he couldn't be sure of her thoughts, either, because her face remained blank, studious in the way it was when she was studying her Psych notes the night before a test.

So there was no telling exactly what she thought of all this, and when he finished all he could do was sit back and wait for judgment to fall.

'**Cause you're all I want, you're all I need.**

**You're everything, everything.**

**You're all I want, you're all I need.**

**You're everything, everything.**

**You're all I want, you're all I need.**

**You're everything, everything.**

**You're all I want, you're all I need, you're everything, everything.**

"Wow…" Jess breathed. "That's…a little scary."

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Tell me about it. You don't think my life scares _me_ sometimes?"

"True dat," Jess deadpanned. "So it's…dangerous? What you do?"

"What I _used_ to do," Sam corrected. "What you saw in the alley was a one-time deal. I left my family for a reason. I quit that life, Jess."

"Yeah, I know you quit that life, Sam. What I'm not sure of is whether that life quit _you_."

Sam stared at her, at a complete loss for words, because he'd honestly never even considered _that_ road. "…Oh."

"I mean, from what you told me, these…creatures…well, they don't stop. How can you be so sure they—especially that one…demon—won't keep coming after you, just because of how dangerous _you_ could be?"

The "could be" was a small gift, and Sam accepted it and all that it implied.

"I can't," he replied honestly. "I can't be sure of anything. But…I can take care of myself. And I can protect you. I was _trained _to protect you."

At that, Jess smiled. "Oh, don't go all David Eddings on me."

At that, Jess smiled. "Nah, it's not like that. I'm not saying I was born for it, or that it's my destiny, or any of that sci-fi fantasy stuff. I'm just saying that…I can. Protect us. And I will, Jessica. I _will_. Always."

The words were out before he remembered that she didn't _want_ to be protected, but she didn't call him on it. She simply took his hand, threading her fingers through his, and smiled.

"Okay."

**And how can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?**

**Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?**

**How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you?**

**Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?**


	6. The River's Just A River

Chapter 5

**This is the last time**

**That I'm ever gonna come here tonight.**

**This is the last time I will fall **

**Into the place that fails us all inside.**

Things were different.

The changes weren't big, or in-your-face, or even hardly noticeable at all, but they were there. It was such a subtle thing that their friends didn't even notice, but Sam could feel it. He and Jess were…off.

Of course, it was only natural for things to be a little unbalanced after such a bomb-dropping. Jess certainly couldn't be expected to just let it go and forget that nightmares were real and she had a boyfriend trained to fight them. If she had, Sam probably would have been highly suspicious.

Still, he couldn't say he _liked_ the way things were now. He couldn't _like_ the way Jess would hesitate for that split second when he said he was going out, the way she would avoid the subject of her nightmares on those nights when she jerked awake in the night and Sam would tug her close and hold her tight.

But she still rolled her eyes at his lame jokes, and she still teased him mercilessly when he ordered lattes and cappuccinos next to her straight-up black coffee, and she kept his secret without any urging. She still listened to him and talked to him and loved him.

So, yeah, things were different. But things were also the same, and these days that was more than enough.

**I can see the pain in you.**

**I can see the love in you.**

**But fighting all the demons will take time.**

**It will take time.**

Sam and Jess moved in together at the beginning of junior year, into a nice apartment off-campus that they got at a good price through Derek's cousin somehow-or-other.

The decision was not met with raised eyebrows or private mutters, but rather with smirks and murmurings of "Well, it's about time." Derek, who had by now become Sam's best friend, was heard to chuckle about how Sam could stop pestering him to keep his crap on his side of the room and Jess's roommate had exactly the opposite relief: now she could actually have a _clean_ space.

Meanwhile Sam was falling deeper and deeper every day, until one morning, as he was sitting in their kitchen watching Jess mix her coffee recipe (approximately one bag of coffee per cup of water) and listening to her grumble about how damned unnatural it was to be up at this hour (about nine-thirty), the thought occurred to him.

_I'm gonna marry that girl._

**The angels, they burn inside for us.**

**Are we ever**

**Are we ever gonna learn to fly?**

**The devils, they burn inside of us.**

**Are we ever gonna come back down,**

**Come around?**

**I'm always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold.**

Once Sam had reached his conclusion, he felt oddly complacent about it. He didn't feel any need to run out and buy a ring, or even to _tell_ anyone. After all, what was the rush? He and Jess were still in _college_, for God's sake. He was working on a law degree and she wanted to become a psychologist. Both of those things would consume them for a while yet, and Jess wouldn't thank him for asking something like that of her now.

So, instead of rushing into things head-on, Sam did what Sam did, and sat down to think it out.

In the end, he came to the conclusion that they would simply have to have a long engagement. If Jess showed any desire to say yes at all—and he wasn't banking on that—he would make it clear that she shouldn't feel any obligation until at least graduation. The last thing he wanted was to back her into a corner, after all.

Unfortunately, he now had a rather daunting task ahead of him—one that made him wish he could just fight another werewolf as a proposal, instead.

**This is the last time**

**That I'm ever gonna give in tonight.**

**Are there angels or devils crawling here?**

**I just want to know what blurs and what is clear to see.**

It's one of those nasty facts of life—where there are graveyards, there are zombies, and where there are shops, there are salesmen.

Faced with a widely-grinning man intent on selling him a ring that would bankrupt him completely and still be only about half paid off, Sam thought he'd rather take the zombies. At least he knew how to fight zombies—suave guys in expensive suits were _not_ his forte.

His thousands of arguments with his dad proved to be of quite a bit of use in this situation, and he was able to talk the smooth-talking, soul-sucking man into brings his sights down to something that was actually affordable to people without Ferraris.

But as Sam walked out of the ring shop with a much lighter bank account and the knowledge that he'd secured at least the ring part of his proposal, he couldn't help feeling that it was about time for the other shoe to drop.

**Still, I can see the pain in you,**

**And I can see the love in you,**

**And fighting all the demons will take time.**

**It will take time.**

It was a damn big shoe when it finally did fall on him a couple of weeks later, and, no surprise, it came in the form of Dean.

He came in the middle of the night, when the reasonable and sane were asleep in their beds, and on top of that he didn't use the door. Nor did he bother to keep it down—after all, why should it? It was his _brother's_ house.

Unfortunately for our daring hero, said brother was not expecting visitors at midnight, and said brother was also excellent of hearing and highly skilled in hand-to-hand.

'Nough said.

It took almost ten minutes for Sam to stop yelling at his brother for being such an idiot. He spoke a couple of different languages, swearing in both, and with his impressively varied vocabulary, eh didn't even have to repeat himself once. His skills were actually rather formidable, even more so because, yes, he _had_ grown a bigger set of lungs since the last time he saw his brother.

Finally, though, Sam ran out of words, and fell silent, glaring rather alarmingly. Dean looked calmly back, and neither of them said a word.

That was how Jess found them when she came home from work.

She came in griping, because the people at the bowling alley where she worked were more greedy than usual tonight, but her grumblings cut off abruptly as she closed the door and turned to see the Winchesters staring at her, one with an affectionate sort of smile and the other with an appreciative—and irritating—smirk.

"Hello…" she said slowly, apparently not noticing either of the looks. "Did anything...unusual happen while I was gone?"

"Jess," Sam said. "You remember Dean. Dean, this is my girlfriend Jessica."

He said it warningly, but apparently the warning fell on deaf ears, because Dean went right up to his brother's girl and leered.

"Let me tell you, hon, you are way out of my brother's league. Seriously."

"What are you doing here?" Sam snapped, as Jess rolled her eyes and went to stand next to him.

Dean sighed and turned to face him again. "Listen, Sammy. I don't think it's something we should talk about here, okay?"

"Sure it is," Sam replied coolly. "Jess knows already. About all of it."

If Dean was surprised that Sam had actually gone through with it, he didn't show it. He simply shrugged and said, "Have it your way."

"So?" Sam pressed, when Dean paused.

Dean sighed.

"Fine. I think something's wrong with Dad."

"What makes you say that?" Sam asked, tone deceptively flat.

"Well, he's on a hunting trip. And he hasn't been home in a few days."

**The angels, they burn inside for us.**

**Are we ever**

**Are we ever gonna learn to fly?**

**The devils, they burn inside of us.**

**Are we ever gonna come back down,**

**Come around?**

**I'm always gonna worry about the things that could break us.**

"Be careful. Like, _really_ careful. Extra, extra careful," Jess cautioned later, watching Sam throw his things into his bag.

Sam smiled a little at her. "I'm always careful, Jess." He went over to open his weapons drawer, and Jess's eyes widened as he pulled scythes and daggers out from under piles of jeans.

"And I'm…guessing those help," she said.

"A little, yeah."

"I wish you would let me come," Jess said suddenly, changing the subject.

Sam looked quickly at her. "I told you before. It's too dangerous. You'd get hurt."

"Yeah, plus I can't use a knife, I've never even held a gun, and I'd be more of a hindrance than I could ever be a help," Jess said matter-of-factly. "I know, Sam. Doesn't mean I have to be practical about it."

Sam chuckled, but it faded quickly into a frown.

"I wish I didn't have to leave you."

Jess smiled. "And from that sentence I'd guess that either you've grown more attached me than is healthy or…you're worried about leaving me _alone_." She did that adorable thing where she tilted her head a little, like an inquisitive puppy, and studied him. "And since I know you too well to think the former, I'm gonna have to assume you're worried. Don't be. I'll be perfectly fine, okay? You just worry about finding your dad."

Sam looked warmly at her, and asked, "What would I do without you?"

She laughed. "Crash and burn."

XXX

The next night, his first time trying to sleep away from Jess, he had the dream again. He woke up panting, drenched, and horrified, with visions flashing through his mind of her, spread above him, a beautiful, broken angel, burning, burning, burning…

Glancing over to make sure Dean was still asleep, Sam slipped out of bed and headed for the door, grabbing his phone along the way. He left so quietly that even Dean, so in tune with him even now, didn't move.

He stood outside in front of the motel, shivering, and dialed.

Jess took a while to come to the phone, and Sam reminded himself over and over again that it was _late_, and of course it would take her a while to answer. This didn't stop his heart from jumping with relief when her voice muttered into the phone, "The world had _better_ be ending…"

"It's me," Sam said in reply.

"Sam?" she asked, and he could _hear_ her taking back the "world ending" comment in her mind. "What's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt? You can't _already_ be hurt. You're not that accident prone. I—"

"Jess," he interrupted soothingly. "Relax. We're fine."

"Oh. Okay. Hi."

He chuckled. "Hi. Listen, the reason I was calling is…a little weird…"

"Sam," she said, "_you're_ a little weird. Weirdness does not scare me."

"No," he agreed. "But…well, I called to tell you to be careful this weekend, while I'm gone."

"Uh...okay. Didn't we go over this already?"

"Well, yeah, but…I had a dream."

"Okaaay…" she said, obviously wondering where this was going. "What was it about?"

"You."

"What was I doing?"

"Burning."

After a moment of surprised pause, she sighed. "Why couldn't you just dream something dirty, like normal people?"

"You were…pinned to the ceiling. Like…like my mother." Now that he'd begun, Sam felt almost a compulsion to say it all.

More silence. Then, "Oh."

"Listen, there's probably no reason to worry. I don't actually have dreams that come true. I'm probably just being stupid. But I don't want you taking any chances, all the same. Put down salt around the doors and windows, okay? Make sure it's in a ring at the dead and a line at the windows. Spirit deterrent."

"Of course it is."

"I'll be back as soon as I can. Day after tomorrow, tops. I have classes Monday anyway…"

"Sam. You're babbling. Calm down. I'll be _fine_."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know. I just…"

"I know," Jess cut him off. "I love you, too."

And finally, finally, finally, Sam was able to smile.

"I love you, too."

**If I was to give in, give it up**

**And then**

**Take a breath—make it deep,**

'**Cause it might be the last one you get,**

**Be the last one**

**That could make us cold.**

**You know that they could make us cold.**

It was surprising, how reluctant Dean was to drop him back at Stanford on Sunday night. He insisted that he wanted to keep searching for John—whom they hadn't seen a trace of the whole time they hunted that damn woman in while—but Sam knew better.

He wouldn't acknowledge facts, though, and Sam's anxiety for Jess prevented him from digging, and in the end it all came out the same way, anyway—with Dean watching as Sam walked away from him again.

The dorm was quiet when Sam went in, and for a few moments his heart clenched. But then his mind caught up with his fears, and he realized that the slat lines were undisturbed, and he could finally hear the shower going.

Feeling relieved now, Sam went into his and Jess's room, tossed his bags aside, and flopped down on his bed, closing his eyes as he fell back.

They opened on his nightmare.

Jess…pinned to the ceiling, bleeding, pale, and painfully beautiful. For one awful moment he stared, trying to will movement into his body, knowing exactly what was about to happen but certain that he could somehow _prevent _it.

"_No!"_

**I'm always gonna worry about the things that could make us cold.**

* * *

_Author's Note: Wow, that was a quick update. I hope the fact that I didn't divert drastically from the storyline didn't disappoint anyone, but that was kind of the point. I hope you liked it anyway. Review, please!_


	7. Ashes, Ashes

Chapter 6

**Something went wrong.**

**You're not laughing.**

**It's not so easy now to get your smile.**

**You gotta be strong**

**To walk those streets**

**And keep from falling.**

**But when you're not, just let yourself cry.**

The grass was dead.

Sam idly plucked a few blades from the ground next to him and studied them intently. When he found nothing out of the ordinary, he began to methodically rip each one into small pieces. Wholeheartedly absorbed in his task, he apparently wasn't noticing anything around him at all.

Dean watched him from a few feet away, not taking his eyes off his brother even as he spike to the surprisingly sympathetic medic standing next to him.

"He's gonna be okay?"

The medic took a deep breath. "Just lucky you were there. You got him out before he even inhaled that much smoke. He'll be all right."

Except…except Sam _wouldn't_ be all right.

And didn't that just suck?

"Thanks, man," Dean said, still without taking his eyes off Sam. He waited for a response, then steeled himself and walked over to crouch down next to Sam. "Hey, Sammy," he murmured, more quietly than he ever would have thought he could.

In reply, Sam decapitated a dandelion.

"Sam…" Dean sighed, reaching out to take the dead flower from his hand. "C'mon, man, what did the flower ever do to you?"

Sam didn't answer—he hadn't said a word since he'd been pulled from the fire, and the silence was starting to creep Dean out.

"Listen, Sammy," he said, keeping his voice quiet and soothing. "I know this sucks, okay? I can't even imagine what you're going through right now. But you need to stay with me, okay? I'll take care of everything. Just…stay with me."

Sam sat utterly still for a few moments, then abruptly tossed his grass aside, stood up, and walked away.

XXX

Dean took care of everything, as promised. He fended off the cops by convincing them to substitute his statement for Sam's, and even managed to wrangle a truly staggering group of Sam's friends who turned up, frantic and disbelieving, demanding of every single person in the vicinity to know what was going on.

He didn't tell them Jessica was dead. He only told them who he was, and that he had Sam and was taking him to a motel.

Then he booked, so he wouldn't have to watch their reactions when they found out the truth, like the coward he knew himself to be but that no one else would ever admit he was.

Least of all Sam.

_God, Sam._

Said little brother was standing at the trunk of the Impala, and only his hands moved, the rest of him utterly still. Dean walked up next to him and saw that he was following with one of the guns. His hands were perfectly steady, and you could never tell his grief from the outside.

Until you saw his face.

Of course, it might not be plain even then, if you didn't know him as well as his big brother did. But to Dean, when Sam glanced up at him as he stopped, the pain and grief and shock was clear as day, and so raw that Dean could _feel_ it bleeding over into him.

Then suddenly, Sam nodded, for all the world as if someone had actually spoken, and took a deep breath, and turned away. He looked back into the trunk, his hands still moving. He finished doing…whatever he was doing with the gun, and then he tossed it back in—and spoke.

"We've got work to do."

**You've been working hard,**

**Just trying to pay the rent,**

**Tryin' to draw the line between who you are**

**And who you invent.**

**But if you throw a stone,**

**Something's gonna shatter somewhere.**

**We're all so fragile.**

**We're all so scared.**

The next couple of days were unadulterated hell, and that was painting a kind face on it. Dean spent almost all of his time with his brother, with the exception of bathroom time. His intention never to leave Sam alone for more than ten minutes was pathetically transparent, but at this point he was past caring, and besides, Sam himself barely even noticed.

The night of the fire and the morning following it were filled with the ringing of Sam's cell as his friends and Jess's dialed their only source of information. Sam answered each and every one, even when Dean vehemently protested, and even after it had begun to wear on him he still sounded like the strong one, the rock.

Yeah, Sam had a rough couple days of it. He kept busy, distracting himself with everything from doing laundry to cleaning the already-clean weapons. It was a completely healthy way of dealing—on the surface.

But under the healthy business was an entirely _un_healthy rage, all the more worrisome because it was so tightly and rigidly controlled. Whenever he wasn't cleaning something or on the phone, he was buried in their dad's journal, or hooked up on the internet, or otherwise trying to track any kind of lead to his girlfriend's killer.

And then there were the nightmares. They came in twos and threes and more, whenever Sam closed his eyes. He wouldn't say what they were about, and in fact, unless the phone was glued to his ear, hardly talked at all.

There was no sugarcoating it—Sam was obsessed, depressed, and getting worse every day, and there wasn't a damned thing to be done about it.

**You say you wanna learn how to live your life**

**Without tears,**

**But we've been trying to do that for thousands of years.**

**So go on and cry Ophelia.**

**It's the only thing to do sometimes.**

**You know I'm crying, too,**

**Right there with you. **

**It's all right Ophelia.**

**Everybody cries.**

At first, it was a toss-up whether Sam would actually attend his girlfriend's memorial service or simply lose his mind entirely and spend the time huddled in the corner of the motel room eating his hair. Lately the latter was becoming more and more of a possibility.

When Sam finally made his decision, the only indication of it was his telling Dean, "You don't have to go. I can do this alone."

Dean didn't reply to that, except with a look that said it all.

And so, three days after the fire, the Winchester brothers dressed in rented suites that Dean didn't once complain about, and went to their first-ever funeral.

That day was obviously and visibly the most difficult one of Sam's life so far, and of Dean's by extension. The all-powerful big brother suddenly found himself helpless, unable to do anything but sit next to Sam and offer silent support through the empty priestly comfort, the eulogy, and all of the other ceremonies of the memorial that in the end amounted to nothing because Sam's girlfriend was still dead and his grief was still too vast to put into words.

They didn't stick around after the service. Sam was almost entirely catatonic by the end, and so he didn't even attempt a protest when Dean decided they should skip the condolences and just get him _out_ of there.

The thing was, Dean had no idea what to _do_ once he'd succeeded. For some reason, the idea of just going back to the motel and spending the rest of the day watching Sam obsess some more was absolutely revolting to him, but he couldn't really think of any alternatives.

So, in the end, he reverted to his constant and comfortable fallback: big brother mode. Take care of Sammy. Always, this had been his solution when he simply didn't know what else to do, and apparently that hadn't changed in their time apart.

So, step one in the Big Brother Mode Handbook was to get Little Brother some food. At this point, it didn't' matter what, but he hadn't seen Sam eat an actual meal in well over forty-eight hours and that just had to stop _now._

They stopped at a diner, and Sam ate the burger and fries Dean bought him with mechanical indifference while Dean watched him like a hawk and grew more concerned by the second.

Something was different here, since the memorial. For days Sam had been focused and down-to earth. He'd talked a little, sometimes. He'd tolerated his brother's close scrutiny with good grace. In short, he'd been so rational and logical that he seemed constantly on the verge of cracking.

But something had changed. Sam hadn't said a word since early that morning, and he didn't even seem to care that Dean was staring at him. Where before there would have been mockery, or at least a display of wry humor, now there was nothing.

And it wasn't even like he wasn't all there. There was absolutely no indication that he'd finally lost his mind completely. He was quite obviously all there, just…distant, and apathetic. Like from food to human interaction, it was all simply too mundane and unimportant to be noticed.

Was this, then, the fine line between grief and insanity? Was Sam tiptoeing that line even now? And was there any way at all to keep him from crossing over?

Dean sighed, toying unenthusiastically with a fry, and though Sam glanced at him, he didn't say anything.

_What a surprise._

"You ready to go, Sammy?"

Sam hesitated, his mouth opening with agonizing slowness as if he were about to speak, and Dean waited, surprised to find that right now he wanted absolutely nothing more than for Sam to say _something _and sure that he was about to get his wish.

But then the moment passed, and Sam shook his head slightly, pushed his plate away, got up and headed for the door.

**Thank God for my bad memory.**

**I've forgotten some of the stupid things**

**That I've done.**

**I've come to a little wisdom**

**Through a whole lot of failure,**

**So I watch more carefully what rolls off my tongue.**

By the time Dean gave up and turned the car toward the motel, he was beginning to wonder if Sam had taken some kind of vow of silence. He didn't even complain when Dean turned his Metallica up so loudly the car began to shake, in an admittedly desperate attempt to get a rise out of him, and that was _most_ alarming. When they got back to the motel lot, he gave no indication that he cared where he was, or that it was barely four in the afternoon and already they'd run out of distractions. He just stared at his hands for a moment and then got of the car.

Dean trailed at a distance, tugging at his tie until it came loose and hung limply in his hand, using the distraction as an excuse to look away from his brother for a second, just long enough to gather some measure of control in preparation for what he must do now that no other option had presented itself.

Sam was in the bathroom when he got to the room. Dean changed while he waited, using the time to prepare his words, having never done this kind of thing before.

After a few minutes, Sam came out, dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and went straight to his bed.

He was almost sitting on it before Dean spoke.

"We need to talk."

Sam turned to him almost immediately, eyebrows raised in question.

"That okay with you?" Dean asked uncertainly, confused by the reaction.

Sam shrugged, which certainly wasn't positive encouragement. Then again, neither was it negative, and so Dean steeled himself and plunged in.

"I'm worried about you, Sam."

Sam's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hair, his expression one of sad amusement.

"Well, can you blame me?" Dean asked, for all the world as if his brother had actually spoken. "You're acting like a fanatic, man! You've been stapled to that damn journal for days now, and you don't even care that if there was really any information in there we would already _have_ it. You're obsessed. Do you even realize how dangerous that is?"

Sam's expression wasn't even remotely amused now. In fact, it was blanked of all emotion, and Dean didn't have the faintest idea what he could be thinking.

"Look, Sam," he said, his voice gentler now. "I know you're hurting, okay? You're hurting, and you're angry, and _I_ can't possibly understand what you're going through. I realize that. But you're killing yourself over this, and even if I can't understand, I still need you to talk to me. I need you to let me try and help you."

Dean stopped talking then, and for a few seconds he honestly thought Sam hadn't absorbed a word of his speech. But then Sam's eyes raised to meet his, and _finally_, after days of detachment, they were wet. Dean was exalting in his victory and about to say something else when Sam stood up.

His eyes still wet and his face still blank, the youngest Winchester walked over to their empty little table, hesitated—and then quite deliberately turned it over.

Things just sort of went downhill from there, and Dean watched in shock as his generally soft-spoken, quiet little brother systematically destroyed their motel room with one thought on his mind.

_How was I supposed to be prepared for this?_

**You pray for rain,**

**But you don't want it from a storm.**

**You find a rose,**

**And cut your finger on a thorn.**

**So go on and cry Ophelia.**

**It's the only thing to do sometimes.**

**You know I'm crying, too,**

**Right there with you.**

**It's all right Ophelia.**

**Everybody cries Ophelia.**

* * *

_Author's Note: Okay, so this chapter was absolute hell to write. I'm not even kidding. It was _hard! _It just wouldn't _go_! For some reason I couldn't seem to portray Sam's grief too well, and therefore, I have no idea if it's good or bad. So…tell me. Please. And thank you._

_Oh, and one more note, just to clarify. The hunt in the chapter before this one is pretty much exactly the hunt for the Woman in White in the Pilot episode. They got John's journal in exactly the same way and everything. Just so there aren't any misunderstandings._


	8. We All Fall Down

Chapter 7

**There's a lot of things I understand,**

**And there's a lot of things that**

**I don't want to know.**

**But you're the only face I recognize.**

**It's so damn sweet of you**

**To look me in the eyes.**

Flashback

"_I wish you would come with me," Jess said, fastening the clasp of her necklace and turning to face him. She wasn't pouting or whining—she seemed genuinely sad that once again she was losing this argument she and Sam had been having off and on for years now._

_Sam sighed, and reached out to turn the little silver cross right. "Jess, come on. It's not such a big deal. Why does it matter whether I go or not?"_

"_Because it just _does_."_

_Sam chuckled a little. "You know, we have this argument every week, and _every single time_ you say that."_

"_And every week you point that out."_

"_And every week you point that out."_

"_And then I give you up for a heathen and we forget the ugliness ever happened."_

"_So we're pretty much right on schedule."_

"_Exactly." Jess grinned for a moment, then sighed and said, "Fine. Don't come. But at some point we're going to have to talk about why you're so against the whole idea."_

_Sam simply looked steadily at her and said quietly, "You know why."_

_Jess's eyes softened, if possible, even more. "Yeah. I know. Just…don't ever tell my parents." Then she smiled and leaned down to kiss him."_

End Flashback

**It's all right, I'm okay.**

**I think God can explain.**

**I believe I'm the same.**

**I get carried away.**

**It's all right, I'm okay.**

**I think God can explain.**

**I'm relieved, I'm relaxed.**

**I'll get over it yet.**

For the rest of his life, Sam knew, there would be The Division. All events in his life would be split into two categories—Before Jess, and After. They would be separated by that little golden bubble of time with her, and they would be unmistakable.

And so this was the time of Division—and any kind of separation is usually painful. Sam had dealt with them before, of course, so many times as to stagger most minds—but like this?

Never.

It was like…a hole. A big, black, fathoms-deep abyss where all his insides ought to be, and he didn't know how to make it go _away_.

So he threw things, and he turned over things, and he destroyed everything he could get his hands on. The thuds and crashes and breaking glass gave voice to his pain, and so he reveled in it, though he knew he would pay for it later.

The distant little corner of his mind that could think clearly past the haze of red noted with a faint tang if interest that Dean wasn't stopping him. He probably should have been with all his older-brother instincts that were probably screaming at him to _stop this madness now._

But he wasn't, and Sam didn't really care why. He just kept breaking things, in a mindlessness born of pure desperation to make _something_ hurt as badly as he was.

Until he ran out of things to throw.

It caught him by surprise more than it did Dean, he was sure. He'd just thrown the motel-provided telephone across the room, and had reached back to the night table, where his searching fingers encountered…nothing.

Undaunted, he turned his attention to the beds—only to find that he'd already disassembled them. After going to the drawers and seeing that he'd already pulled them all out, he gave up at last.

He was standing in the middle of the room, unable to move or even _think_, when Dean's voice sounded behind him, his tone mild.

"So. Feel better?"

**The scent of Vaseline**

**In the summertime,**

**The feel of an ice cube**

**Melting over time.**

**The world seems bigger**

**Than both of us,**

**Yet it seems so small**

**When I begin to cry.**

Dean vowed then and there never to let Sam find out how much work it had taken to keep his voice light, as if he were inquiring about the weather rather than the sanity of his little brother. It just wouldn't do to be in any less than complete control—not for Sam, and definitely not for him.

But the truth was, he'd never been _less_ in control not once in his entire messy life. This was the kind of behavior he'd expect to see in himself, or in John, maybe. Not in Sam. Never in Sam.

That, more than anything else, was enough to underscore exactly what has been lost here, and suddenly Dean was scared, which just plain sucked.

But there really wasn't any time to dwell on it right at this moment, because in the two seconds since he'd spoken, Sam had become a different man…again. He wasn't standing rigid anymore, like a cardboard cutout of himself, and as Dean watched, he turned.

For several moments, he just stared at Dean, his features sharp as chiseled stone, not saying a word.

Then he walked past his brother and left the wrecked motel room.

**It's all right, I'm okay.**

**I think God can explain.**

**I believe I'm the same.**

**I get carried away.**

**It's all right, I'm okay.**

**I think God can explain.**

**I'm relieved, I'm relaxed.**

**I'll get over it yet.**

Sam came back to the Dean-neatened motel room at about eleven, drunk off his ass and reeking of that which Dean had never been able to shove down his throat, and Dean's only real thought as he was manhandling his brother into bed was that he'd changed his mind—he _never_ wanted to see Sam drunk again.

Because apparently, tequila did not have the same affect on Sam that it had on normal people. It didn't make him unduly aggressive or unusually happy. Instead it made him cry, and Dean would much rather have gotten in a fistfight with Sammy than watch him cry, any day of the week.

After several minutes of work, he had Sam lying down, and without much thought he stationed himself in the bed next to him.

He was fairly startled when Sam turned over and curled into him, burying his head in his shoulder, but the quick unfurling of irritation and _Oh, God, not this, Sammy_ were more automatic than anything, and he was able to suppress it without much difficulty.

Shoving aside his thoroughly masculine personality was another matter entirely, however, and it was several minutes before he hesitantly slid an arm around Sam and tightened it.

It was a little awkward—more than a little, actually—to be participating in the ultimate of chick-flick moments and letting his drunk little brother cry all over him. But as weird as it felt, it also fell under the heading of Older Sibling Duty, which just…trumped all else.

Period.

**I'm so much better than you guessed.**

**I'm so much bigger than you guessed.**

**I'm so much brighter than you guessed.**

It took an almost unbearable length of time for Sam's body-wracking sobs to die down, but Dean didn't move once, not even to shift spots on the bed, in case that was enough to send Sam back into his deep and silent shell. Because even _this_ was better than that damn shell.

Finally, though, the horrible sounds coming from Sam began to quiet until he was just lying there, shaking, his face still hidden in Dean's shoulder. From there, he slowly progressed to letting go of Dean, then to rolling onto his back, until they were once again separate people.

Dean didn't move away from him, though. He got the feeling that this wasn't all that had to be done—and he was right.

It was almost an hour before Sam spoke. His voice was deep and tired, and Dean looked over to find him blinking slowly at the ceiling, looking exhausted.

"Dean, where do you think she is now?"

Dean didn't answer right away. Between the shock of Sam actually speaking for the first time in a day and the question itself, he felt rather like the deer in the headlights. He simply didn't have any idea what to _say._

"I don't know, Sam."

Sam nodded, as if he hadn't expected anything else and went on, his voice hoarse and tired with disuse and exhaustion.

"She was really religious, ya know? She went to church every single Sunday, and she was always trying to convince me to go with her. I think she was hoping to convert me." He chuckled for a second, then went back to staring at the ceiling.

"I wonder if it paid off for her. I wonder if there really is a Heaven, and she's there right now." He looked down for a moment, then up again. "I know you don't believe in that kind of thing, but…it could happen." Suddenly, he turned his head to stare up at Dean., and his eyes were desperate, _pleading_. "Right?"

Dean hesitated, trying to decide whether to tell Sam what he really thought, or lie. Then he squeezed Sam's shoulders again.

"Yeah, Sammy. It could happen."

**It's all right, I'm okay.  
I think God can explain.**

**I believe I'm the same.**

**I get carried away.**

**It's all right, I'm okay.**

**I think God can explain.**

**I'm relieved, I'm relaxed.**

**I'll get off your back.**

Around two in the morning, Sam pretended to go to sleep and Dean went back to his own bed. Sam listened for the sound of blankets being pulled up, for Dean's breathing to go deep and even, and then rolled onto his back and contemplated Dean's lie.

That it was a lie wasn't even a question. Dean simply did not believe in Heaven, and there was no reason to believe that had changed. But he'd wanted to make Sam feel better, and Sam appreciated it.

It hadn't worked, but he still appreciated it.

Unfortunately, Dean's thoughtful lie hadn't solved anything, and Sam still didn't know where his girlfriend was now. She had to be _somewhere_—Sam of all people knew that people weren't just _gone_ when they…died. And besides, the idea of Jess being _nowhere_ was…unacceptable. She couldn't be a ghost, or in Hell—those ideas were equally unacceptable.

There was only one real option left, regardless of whether Dean believed it or not.

And Sam prayed.

**I think God can explain.  
I think God can explain.**

**I think God can explain.**

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, there it is! It's almost over now—just the epilogue to go, and that should be up pretty soon. I hope you review!_


	9. Epilogue

Epilogue

_By moonlight many years ago, _

_My true love did I know. _

_And by that moon I begged her wait, _

_But that night did she go.  
So, young lovers, heed my words. _

_Don't squander love away.  
The moon is changing ever still. _

_So comes the light of day. _

- Dawson's Creek

Sam was…surprised…when the sun rose the next morning.

It sounded like a fairly melodramatic thing to admit, even to him, but that didn't change facts, and as long as he didn't say it out loud he figured it didn't really matter.

Dean was up and gone by the time he opened his eyes, his bed actually made for once and the room perfectly clean, even the shards of glass gone from the floor. A little puzzled, but still too distant to be really alarmed, Sam started to sit up…

And flopped back down with a groan as he found out where all the glass had gone—that is to say, into his head. The pain exploded with the slightest movement, and multiplied when the sunlight struck his eyes.

Well, at least there didn't seem to be any need for vomit. Sam wasn't sure he would have been able to handle that.

_Okay. So. Gotta get up. Gotta find Dean…_

He was still lying there fifteen minutes later when Dean came in. He'd probably tried to close the door quietly—but not quietly enough, and the pain that had been dying down just a little actually got worse.

"Sammy?"

"Ugh…"

Dean chuckled a little, but somehow it was a sad sound, and his voice was laced with sympathy instead of the expected mockery.

"Feel like crap, eh?"

"On toast," Sam agreed. "Where've you been?"

A far more welcome sound than an answer came from Dean—the sound of pills rattling out of a bottle. A second later, something cold was pressed into one of his hands, and the painkillers into the other. Then came the sound of Dean retreating to his side of the room, and the creak of bedsprings as he sat.

Inch by painful inch, Sam made it into a sitting position and leaned against the headboard, swallowing the pills along with some of the water.

"Ow."

Dean smiled sympathetically. "Sorry."

Sam grunted. "Where ya been?"

"Talking to the manager," Dean replied.

"About what?"

Dean raised his eyebrows and looked around the room, and Sam felt a stab of guilt. "Oh. Yeah. That. Uh…sorry, man."

"Well, at least we didn't check in under our own name. It took quite a story to keep our asses out of jail, but…"

"Oh, yeah? What kind of story?"

"Uh…I think I'll keep that one to myself. You've had enough trauma lately."

Sam favored him with a chuckle that even came close to sounding sincere, but Dean wasn't laughing, and Sam stopped trying and waited for the question he knew was coming.

"How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Sam said automatically, without even trying to make it sound true.

"Liar."

"Yeah."

For a few minutes, Sam watched the bedspread while Dean watched him, and then Sam spoke, quietly.

"Thanks, man."

Dean shrugged. "Hey, I woulda thought you'd be used to getting my help by now."

"Dean, would you please be serious for two seconds?" Sam snapped, sounding so much like his old self that Dean actually started, visibly.

Then he looked over at Sam and said, "You're welcome."

They were silent for a while. Then Sam spoke again.

"I'm not all right, Dean."

"No," Dean agreed.

"I don't know if I will be."

"I do."

"How do you know?"

"Because I'm your big brother and I said so."

"…Okay."

"Sam, that was a joke."

"Not to me."

And surprisingly enough, Dean didn't seem to have anything to say to that.

XXX

It took an hour, but Sam was finally able to get out of bed and into his clothes, and he came out of the shower feeling marginally more himself.

Dean had retrieved their dad's journal while he was in the shower, and was thumbing through it when he came out, a map spread on the bed in front of him.

"So where do the coordinates point?" Sam asked, referring to their dad's last entry.

"Uh…a place called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado," Dean replied, looking a little surprised at his show of interest. "I just wanted to know for…for when I leave."

It was Sam's turn to be surprised. "Whaddya mean, you?"

"…Huh?"

"You said when _I_ leave. You know I'm coming with you, right?"

"Uh…well, I do now."

"It's okay if you don't want me to, though. I get it," Sam said quickly. "I'm not ready to leave yet, anyway, I wanted to do some digging first, and—"

"Sam," Dean cut him off. "You shouldn't even have to wonder about that, man. I'll stick around as long as you do."

Sam smiled. It was tiny; barely an upward quirking of the lips, but it was also the first attempt he'd made in days.

"All right, then. Let's go to work."

* * *

_Author's Note: Well, that's it! Thanks so much to all those who read and reviewed. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it, and I'd _really_ appreciate your thoughts on the epilogue! Too long? Too short? Too speedy? Too sudden? Any and all views are welcome, please!_


End file.
